


Open Wounds

by crxiscent



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma, Whump, h/c
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crxiscent/pseuds/crxiscent
Summary: “Relax, mellon, I wish only to dress your wound. It won’t tickle but I assure you that you’ve braved more daunting tasks.” To this, the elf calmed and after a moment laughed nervously.“Aye, of course, of course,” he muttered, his gaze downcast. Apologies, my friend. I am a bit tense, I suppose.”-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------When their elvish companion returns from a ride with nasty wounds and a faded demeanour, Aragorn and Gimli are well aware that something must have happened to him. That was never the question. The question remains still-- how on earth are they going to get him back to normal? Rated M for violence
Comments: 17
Kudos: 38





	1. Let Me Help You

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: this will be updated very sporadically haha. I use fan fiction mostly as practice and warmups for writing my own material, and this particular fic is for practice with writing action and sequences of violence as I’m well learned in describing the aftermaths of such things, but not so much the events themselves. And who better to whump than my fav boy Leggles amirite? Also an excuse to write some Aragorn/Arwen (just a tad hehe) because I love them so much?? 
> 
> If you couldn't tell this shall be a tad angsty haha whoopsies. So trigger warning there’ll be some violence, graphic descriptions of wounds, talk of trauma, sickness, all that jazz. Enjoy!

The party had set up camp in a small cavern, the entrance to an old mine. They had split that evening, Gimli taking to the abandoned mines to explore, Legolas off riding, Aragorn exhausted and staying at the camp to rest. A harsh rain had begun pounding down onto the lands, only lulling the ranger further into his slumber.

Aragorn was only half awake when he heard the sounds of someone entering their temporary camp. Someone was stumbling about, the noise pulling a sleepy groan from the exhausted man. His eyes fluttered open, only to be met with darkness. The wind must have snuffed out the majority of the fire, he realized, as his eyes fixed on the remnants of the flames. Fortunately, the oil lantern by his head burned still and, blinking in the light, he held it up in search of the source of the ruckus. Through the night, he caught a glimpse of a tall, staggering figure before it collapsed to the floor. At this, Aragorn leapt to his feet, all sleep startled from him. He hurried over to the fallen figure, holding his lantern close-- only to see an unexpected sight.

It was Legolas.

The sight shocked Aragorn from his groggy state as he leapt into action. Legolas was visibly shaking, wet and cold. His tunic and leggings were worn and torn, and to Aragorn’s surprise, soaked with blood. The beginnings of bruises were blooming all over what skin could be seen, some concerningly dark considering they were definitely new. Scrapes and cuts across his pale skin looked out of place, his golden hair soaked and unkempt. Most concerning of what he could see was a gash just above Legolas’ brow. It looked as though he’d been hit with a stone or something of that ilk. It barely spared his eye, but regardless blood diluted by the rainwater was dripping into it.

Aragorn attempted to ask what had happened, but the elf seemed to be floating in and out of consciousness. The ranger attempted to wrap a blanket around him, both to allow him what little modesty he could and warm him up a bit. He cursed under his breath and stood to retrieve whatever alcohol he could find. From Gimli’s pack, he found a flask of dwarven brandy and decided it would do. The dwarf may miss it, but Aragorn was sure he’d be willing to part with it given the state of their elvish companion. 

When he returned, Legolas seemed to be close to fully conscious, at least. He looked troubled and perplexed, but nonetheless awake.

“Thank the Valar, you’re awake. Hello, mellon-nin. How are you feeling?” he asked, wetting a rag with the brandy.

“Strider?” the elf asked dumbly. His speech was slow, but at least he was coherent enough to recognize his friend. Aragorn nodded.

“Aye, it’s me. Tilt your head back a bit?” When Legolas couldn’t seem to register what had been asked of him, he placed his hand beneath his friend’s chin to allow himself to get a better look at the wound on his forehead. Or, rather-- he extended his hand to do so when the elf flinched, scrambling backward. His blue eyes were blown wide with panic, and Aragorn chuckled. 

“Relax, mellon, I wish only to dress your wound. It won’t tickle but I assure you that you’ve braved more daunting tasks.” To this, the elf calmed and after a moment laughed nervously. 

“Aye, of course, of course,” he muttered, his gaze downcast. “Apologies, my friend. I am a bit tense, I suppose.”

“I’ll let you a minute, then, but your wounds must be tended to-- especially that cut on your head.” With that, Aragorn stood and began stirring the dying embers of their fire before grabbing wood and tossing it in. Legolas brought a hand to his forehead, and sure enough, he felt the warm blood nip at his fingers. He pulled the blanket close to himself, trying to collect his scattered thoughts. His head felt as though it were filled with water, his limbs ached, and even as he shifted to alleviate it, he felt a his stomach swimming. 

He remembered what had happened. He wished he’d been unconscious, blissfully ignorant to what was now haunting him. He intended to keep those memories confined to the walls of his mind. Even the sheer idea of telling the ranger sent sickness rising in his throat. Aragorn returned after a while, holding a cup of steaming tea. He handed it to Legolas, in turn lifting the brandy-soaked rag into his hands once more.

“The herbs in the tea should help any pain you’re in, at least a little bit. It’s hot, but it will make you feel better. Now, tilt your head up for me?” he asked, kneeling down to his level. The elf obeyed and let the man inspect his wound, but the idea of consuming anything at that moment made his insides churn. Silently, he set the tea aside. Aragorn clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

“This is rather deep-- however did you get it?” he asked, receiving silence in return. “Sorry, this will sting a little.”

Rather than responding, the elf held his breath and waited for the sting of the brandy to flood his senses. When it did, though, it was anticlimactic. 

It seemed he was a bit numbed to this pain. He supposed it made sense-- a little brandy was nothing compared to what he’d already endured. His face screwed up at the memories, which came back like blows to the stomach. Aragorn noticed his discomfort and apologized again, continuing his actions at a slower pace. Legolas decided he’d let the ranger believe his pain came from the brandy on his wound.

When he deemed the gash clean enough, Aragorn set the rag aside and traded it out for a strip of bandage, which he wrapped around his head with care. Legolas let him without any fuss, deciding he’d rather let the inevitable happen. He’d rather Aragorn finished swiftly so he wouldn’t have any time to notice any of his other wounds.

“That’s the best I can do for now,” he muttered, tying the bandage behind his head. Legolas gave him a forced, weary smile, expecting him to leave.

He didn’t.

“Estel, I-” he began, but Aragorn cut him off.

“My friend, you know as well as I do that cleaning only one of your wounds will do nothing for the rest of them.”

To this, Legolas hugged his knees to his chest, further wrapping himself underneath the fabric. “You have tended to my wounds, Strider. Thank you for that, but you’ve done enough.”

“Enough?” Aragorn blurted, his tone annoyed. “Legolas, I let you stay quiet about whatever happened to you, but you have to let me tend to your wounds. You’re in bad shape, you won’t get far without treatment.” 

Aragorn’s gaze softened on the elf, trying to coax him. “Just let me help you, mellon. Please.”

While the king of Gondor’s gaze softened, the prince’s did not. Legolas was the stubbornest elf Aragorn had ever met, almost tying the obstinacy of the dwarves. Legolas glowered at his friend, not breaking under his gaze.

“I. Am. Fine,” he repeated. Aragorn chuckled.

“That. Is. A. Lie,” he mimicked, before returning to a serious composure. “Really, Legolas, what’s gotten into you? I’ve tended to your wounds countless times before, and you have done the same for me. Are you concerned I’ve lost my touch?” he teased. To his surprise, the elf showed no reaction to his jests, in favour of returning his gaze downcast as it had been.

“Leave it alone, please. At least for tonight. Just let me be,” he said. It was almost a plea, and it broke the man’s heart. 

It wasn’t as if sorrow was foreign on the elf. Of course, they’d all seen each other down in the dumps every once in a while. What Aragorn was seeing, however, was more than just sadness. Legolas sounded miserable. It was a complete change from the elf’s typical serene and sunny disposition.

Aragorn knew he could not push the elf any further tonight. “Aye, as you wish,” he said hesitantly. “If you need anything, just let me know.” The king stepped away, returning to tend to the fire. The elf was like a ghost, indifferent to his words. Aragorn stirred the fire, throwing in a piece of kindling.

_What happened to you, my friend?_ he wondered.


	2. Not Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaa sorry for the shorter chapter today :< i’m having some health struggles right now that came out of nowhere so i’m working on coping, which is making finding motivation to write difficult. however! physical pain is a good tool to write pain in characters SO hopefully next chapter will be better for y’all. stay safe <3

Gimli was many things; but a fool was not one of them. He knew a liar when he saw one, and he told his human companion so. 

When the dwarf had made his way up from the abandoned mines, he was content. The trip down the abandoned shafts had proven to be fruitless, as nothing lay down there— save for the occasional rodent— but Gimli enjoyed exploring it nonetheless. 

He didn’t know quite what he was supposed to expect upon his return, but what he saw was not it. 

Aragorn sat silently by the fire, reading through a small book, keeping a watchful eye on the haunted figure by the cave’s wall. The elf looked unlike Gimli had ever seen him. While he could not go about saying he knew much about the mannerisms of elves, he knew Legolas as well as you could know a person. The figure by the wall curled in on himself was not Legolas, but rather a mere shell of the elf he’d grown to tolerate. 

As much as he hated to think it; he knew he’d much rather hear Legolas humming one of his annoying elvish ditties or watch him take an irritating amount of care with his hair than see this. 

“What’s got him like this?” he asked when he reached the man by the fire. To Gimli’s surprise, Aragorn shrugged and shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he sighed. He set down the book, stealing a glance at their forlorn companion before turning back to face the dwarf. “I tried talking to him but he wouldn’t crack. He’s hurt— lots of cuts and bruises, but he wouldn’t let me examine him at all— so I don’t know if anything else may be wrong with him. If he goes on this weary, I think a detour to Rivendell is in order.” 

Gimli was dumbfounded. “Rivendell?” he exclaimed, before lowering his voice. “Whatever do you need there? I thought we were headed towards Gondor, weren’t we?” 

“We _were_ headed towards Gondor, but if he won’t allow me to tend his wounds we’ll need his own kind to do so. If he’s unsteady, we aren’t going to drag him to the kingdom. Perhaps elvish interaction will coax some reason into him. Familiarity could probably help him, he’s very out of it. Besides, my Arwen is visiting there anyway, and she and him get along quite well. If we must go, I will send a messenger to alert my advisors. I’m sure they’ll be alright without me, for a little while.” 

Gimli nodded, sifting through the contents of his pack. “If you’re sure, you’re sure. With luck, this’ll all blow over by morn and he’ll let you check his wounds, and then we’ll be on.” He retrieved a vial of oil from his pack and a whetstone, beginning to tend to his axe. 

Aragorn sighed, looking out the cave’s mouth into the darkness. “I hope you’re right, Gimli,” he whispered. “I hope you’re right.” 

\-----

The man and the dwarf occupied themselves with mundane chores until there was nothing left to waste their time with. They decided to sleep in shifts, Aragorn taking the first vigil as he’d already rested. 

Legolas hadn’t budged, despite the fact that several hours had passed. Aragorn noted that he might have sunk a little further down the cave’s wall. At first, Aragorn thought he may have fallen asleep-- knowing from living with elves that many of them slept with their eyes open-- but the sharpness of his breathing, which could be heard from the echo in the cave, (surprisingly not drowned out by a certain dwarf’s snoring,) indicated that he was very awake. Several times, the man debated walking over to him and trying to talk to him, but it was as though Legolas could sense his indecision and made a choice for him. His suddenly cold eyes would drift over to him in warning, to which Aragorn would sigh and avert his eyes. 

It was bothering him to the point where he thought he may be overreacting, but one glance at the elf proved that he was rightfully worried. 

It was not as though elves could not feel sorrow— it was quite the contrary, he knew— but rather that Legolas had been chipper during even the darkest of days. On days when grief overtook him, he was not the sort to mope about. Instead, he’d go to the wilderness to clear his head or sing absentmindedly to no one in particular. This reaction to whatever had shaken the elf was out of character for him. 

_It pains me to see you hurt like this, mellon,_ he thought, wishing he could say the words aloud. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes! Don't forget to leave kudos if you liked it, and feel free to comment and tell me what you think! I really appreciate feedback, as these works of fanfiction are what I use as practice for my personal works. If there's something you'd like to see from me, don't hesitate to let me know!


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